


Between Them

by moonriverdrifter



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Apologetic Zelda, But look they just fucking love each other okay?!, Established Relationship, F/F, Hilda has PTSD, Hilda trying to be assertive, I mean really how could she not?, I tried to be clever there and it didn't work sorry, Oh yeah also I'm shit at fic naming, Or rather strap on, Probably a little OOC Zelda, Sibling Incest, Soft Zelda, Spellcest, Standard "I'm going to Hell" posturing, Strap in for a good time, That's why the title sucks, There's strap-on sex in this fic is what I'm trying to say, Two-Shot, porn with slight plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-09-30 06:36:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17218817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonriverdrifter/pseuds/moonriverdrifter
Summary: Hilda wants to try something new but doesn't know how to ask until Zelda makes her.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What do you do when you've got two fics that still need to be finished? Write another one, of course. This is an idea I had and I couldn't not indulge it. Chapter 1 is plot, chapter 2 will be porn.

Hilda is uncertain how to broach the subject. She’s not good at talking about this kind of thing; she never learned how, didn’t even understand all the possibilities of desire and seduction until just over three months ago. Three months, one week and five days, exactly, since the first time Zelda kissed her. It's all still new, the hand-holding that only lasts so long before either Ambrose or Sabrina interrupt them, the stolen embraces in empty hallways. The impossibly tender words—things she never imagined were even in Zelda's vocabulary, let alone could be directed at her—whispered into Hilda’s bare skin. Waking up like this, with her sister's silken nakedness twined around her own.

She is afraid of killing it all when it's barely just begun, so Hilda watches what she says at all times, afraid Zelda will take something the wrong way. She’s frightened of death still, of the Cain pit, but more than that, Hilda fears that if she upsets her sister now, she will never again feel Zelda's hands, her mouth and her breasts and the secret part of her that she has sworn, in bouts of euphoria, belongs only to Hilda. Hilda has spent damn near two hundred years touching that same part of herself, thinking only of Zelda, fixating alternately on her red-gold curls, her impossibly white skin, the perfection of the witch's mark at her right temple. She does not think she would survive losing all of that, so she still hides behind silence.

It's not hard, really. She's never been good at asking for what she wants. When she was little, when they all were, her and Zelda and Edward, their own wants and needs came second to what Mama and Papa insisted the Dark Lord wanted. Even after her baptism, Hilda had been unable to shake the feeling that she was displeasing her infernal master, disgracing her family going back seven generations, if she asked for any little thing of her own.

And then there is Zelda. Two centuries of life with her have proven the best lesson in self-sacrifice Hilda ever had. You learned quickly when and how to shut up and keep your wants to yourself when there was always a very literal axe hanging over your head.

It doesn't matter how many times Zelda swears all that is over. Three months of almost constant lovemaking, of soft touches and softer words and feeling like she had never known she could feel, and Hilda is still in crash position. It’s all too true what they say about old habits.

She wants to believe her sister, to trust the husky voice at her ear during intimate moments, the voice that says, "Anything you want, Hilda mine. I will give you anything." But some nights she still bolts upright out of a Cain pit nightmare, still tastes dirt and felt slow-crawling worm bodies all over her own.

Hilda has, therefore, resolved to keep it to herself, this perverse desire that she still doesn't know how she thought up in the first place. It's impossible, anyway. Certainly she doesn't know any bit of magic that could accomplish it. She puts it out of her mind that Zelda might, with all of her _experience_ , because for Satan's sake, how would she even ask?

Zelda stirs beside her, shakes Hilda from her reverie with one delicious, milky leg thrown over both of hers, and then that deep-velvet voice, lowered by almost an octave from the grog of sleep: "You look serious this morning, sister. What's the matter?"

Hilda turns fractionally, marvels at the sight of Zelda unkempt and lovely with her hair wild about her bare face.

"Nothing," she replies, tracing a hand over Zelda's thigh, "Nothing's the matter."

But Zelda knows better than that. She’s so withholding that it's easy to underestimate her capacity for sniffing out distress. Hilda is the empath, whereas you could stretch Zelda on the rack and she'd still never cop to feeling any kind of way about anyone or anything. But they're sisters, after all; their gifts really aren't all that different, and anyway Zelda has known Hilda since she was fresh from the womb.

She burrows closer, and suddenly the urge to just say it is nearly overwhelming. How can Hilda demur when her sister, her lover, is so close and hot and _hers_ , when they could have so much fun together, if she would just find her balls and _ask_?

"What is it, Hilda? Tell me."

And Hilda wishes she could, but she's lost the language for it. All she has are images and ideas and the way the thought makes her feel, low down in her belly, but she doesn't know how to say it.

"I have told you, Zelda. I’m all right."

And then she wishes she hadn't spoken at all, not even to deny, because Zelda pulls away hard, and there's a hurricane whipping up behind her eyes.

"Fine," she spits, dripping venom, "Keep your damned secrets."

She bolts from bed, and it's amazing how she can turn snapping on her dressing gown into a display of pure rage. Amazing, too, the capacity that Hilda has for ruining absolutely everything in a matter of seconds. Extraordinary, really.

 _Well, fuck_ , she thinks, watching Zelda stomp out of the room.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hilda lasts for less than a few hours, surprises herself with how miserable she feels and how strong is the compulsion to make everything right. She and Zelda used to be able to extend their rows for so long that, by the time Zelda cracked and strangled or stabbed her, neither of them could remember what set it all off to begin with. Intimacy, though. It's changed everything.

They are alone in the house, Sabrina at mortal school and Ambrose having taken off for the Academy immediately after breakfast. Hilda washes dishes while Zelda sits at the table, composed and immovable behind her French newspaper. No one would guess that she's a ticking time bomb beneath her perfect curls and precise makeup and prim plum dress. Except, of course, for Hilda, who has always been the one most burdened by her sister's moods.

The hardness in Zelda's eyes is more than she can take. Hilda dries the last teacup, sets it neatly in the cabinet, and then goes to her sister. Zelda says nothing when Hilda pulls up a chair next to her, when Hilda's hand comes to rest on the small of her back and her cheek drops to Zelda's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she says, and that is all it takes. The paper is cast aside, and both Zelda's arms are around her, encircling Hilda and tucking her into Zelda's breast.

"Why do you still not trust me?" asks Zelda, and in the old days it would have been an accusation, or perhaps a trick, a means to expose yet another vulnerability to exploit. Now, though, her tone is heavy with sorrow. Hilda frowns; she doesn't know how to explain it, not with words. But her eyes dart around the kitchen, to the knife block on the far-away counter, the ice pick within grabbing range. And Zelda's gaze follows, and she sighs.

She's the one who is lost now, because how do you apologize for multiple murders over the course of two centuries? How do you explain it to the one you've hurt when you don't even have answers yourself? Zelda has never been one for introspection; she doesn't know why she did any of it. And she doesn't know how to reassure Hilda that whatever impulse made her pick up the knife, the shovel, the hammer, is gone now, disappeared the moment Hilda's small, trembling hand first skimmed between her thighs.

"I meant what I said," Zelda tries, is taken aback by the way her voice quivers, "Never again, Hilda, I swear it."

Hilda nods against her chest, but there is still something she's holding back, and Zelda knows it, feels it.

"Please." She puts a hand beneath Hilda's chin, makes her look up, kisses her cheek because she needs to touch her sister. "Whatever it is, please just tell me."

"I want..." Hilda bites her lip. She's never been allowed to want; the words sound foreign on her tongue, but she keeps going, if only for Zelda's sake. "I want to know how it feels...to make love..." Another moment of hesitation, because now she really is at a loss, can only think in the most clinical of terms and can't look at Zelda as she says it, so she leans in close, whispers in her ear.

Zelda pulls away, and her face is twisted in the purest expression of shock Hilda has ever seen. "You want to go out and get fucked by a man?!" Her anger is familiar to Hilda as her own heartbeat, as is the immediate need to soothe it. Hilda’s "no" is so quick, so definitive and so full of feeling that it stops Zelda's ire in its tracks.

"I only want you, Zelda! Only you. That's why I didn't say anything, because I know it's not possible."

Hilda is dumbstruck when, instead of strangling, or slapping, or mocking, or any of the million terrible things Zelda could do in this moment, she simply chuckles. Even more surreal is the way that her chuckle gives way to a real laugh, something so entirely filled with mirth that Zelda's body actually shakes. It doesn't seem like she's laughing _at_ Hilda, exactly, but Hilda still feels like it has to be a joke and she's the butt of it like always, and she is about to burst into tears when Zelda's arm snakes around her waist, pulls Hilda down to meet her.

"Oh, my innocent little love," Zelda whispers against her mouth, brushing over one corner and then the space between Hilda's lips and her nose before finally kissing her properly.

Hilda still isn't entirely sure she's not being had, but she can't resist Zelda, never could. She gives in to the caressing lips on hers, the hand in her hair, melts the slightest bit when Zelda disengages them and rests her forehead against hers.

"What you're asking is far from impossible, darling," Zelda whispers, "And I would be happy to indulge you..."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Turns out this scene was harder to write than I anticipated. I was really trying to do it justice and impart what a big deal something like this would be for Hilda while also not trying to make it seem like (synthetic) P-in-V is the be-all/end-all of lesbian sex or fall back on stupid "loss of virginity" tropes because, like, in this story Hilda has been fucking Zelda for months and therefore emphatically does not need de-virginizing.
> 
> So, like...hopefully I've succeeded? *fingers crossed* I'm sure you kids will let me know if not.

"There is no way," Hilda says. 

The very idea has her stomach reeling, and she's now sincerely regretting the decision to leave everything up to Zelda. Because really, is it so hard for her sister to remember that Hilda has never had anyone but her, nothing but her fingers, and Zelda goes deep and gets rough, never ceases to leave her feeling properly fucked, but this...

"It'll be all right, Hilda," Zelda drawls, has to resist the urge to roll her eyes, "It's really not all that much bigger than your average man."

Well, then it's a bloody good thing Hilda's never had sex with a man, because she cannot imagine any scenario in which this double-ended monstrosity does not fatally injure her. She feels no better after Zelda explains how everything works, how the smaller bit goes inside of her and the other, more _life-like_ part is to be used on Hilda. And even when she promises to be careful, to go slowly, Hilda's teeth are still tearing at her lower lip.

"I...I don't know if I can, Zelds." Hilda feels guilty, because this was her idea, and she made Zelda do all the work of selecting the...well, the _equipment_ , figuring that she was more up to the task. And it excited Zelda, doing the choosing; Hilda could tell. Her sister has been looking forward to this.

But Zelda throws both dildo and harness into her nightstand drawer without complaint, and then her arms are around Hilda, drawing her close.

"That's all right," she whispers, "We’ll wait until you're ready."

Hilda nods, though she cannot now fathom ever being ready. It was one thing to fantasize, but actually seeing it in the (not-actually) flesh, well...

"And in the meantime," she says, uncertain, "We can still...?"

"Yes," replies Zelda, one hand disappearing into the neckline of her sister's dress, "Satan, yes."

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hilda had no idea that anything could look as divine, as exhilarating, as _hot_ , as Zelda with a cock. She has taken to wearing the thing—and not much else—around the house when she and Hilda are alone. 

"To get used to it," she says, though Hilda suspects it's really to entice her. And, Satan bless it, it's worked just as well as Zelda undoubtedly hoped.

Better, even, because Hilda, for once, is the one to pin the older witch against the kitchen counter. She is almost never the aggressor; from the first time they fell into Zelda’s bed, Hilda slid easily enough into the role of the seduced. She likes to let Zelda take the lead, likes to be underneath her, at her mercy. Usually.

Now, though, her tongue is thrusting rough in and out of Zelda’s mouth, Hilda’s hands are insistent on her chest. The older witch actually squeals when her sister pinches one nipple, then rolls it around so hard there will definitely be a bruise there later, a mark that Zelda will, under no circumstances, allow Hilda to heal, will purposely touch for days to come just to remind herself of this encounter. Her hips shift, and Hilda is reminded of what's between them, feels it pressed against her apron-clad stomach.

The urge is too great then; she needs to touch. Her hand moves, splays out over the silicone head.

"Go on," Zelda encourages, and Hilda obeys, stroking her index finger down the length of the dildo before wrapping her fingers around it. She is tentative now, exploring it, but it feels good to Zelda. Her moans embolden Hilda, and when she pumps her fist over the toy, the end that is inside Zelda moves, hits in all the right places. 

Hilda is surprised to hear the desperation in her sister’s whine, savors the sound nonetheless. It hadn't even occurred to her that they could do this. Her grip grows firmer, her motions faster, driving the dildo harder into Zelda, who feels her legs crumpling while her fingers scrabble against the counter top.

"Hilda..." she pants, "I can't...oh, Satan..."

Her knees buckle, and Hilda's arm curls around her waist, free hand sinking into Zelda's hip, stabilizing her, while the other continues pumping between her legs. Zelda makes good use of the extra leverage that Hilda's bracing hand grants her, rolls her hips insistently, feels herself beginning to clench and shudder. Besides the firm length inside of her, there's also the visual of Hilda's hand around the false cock. It's pure sex, and that, combined with the heat of Hilda's body so close and the wonder in her sister's big blue eyes, almost has her flying apart.

And then a spasm in Hilda's hand pushes the toy flush against Zelda's sex, and it's hard against her clit, still moving inside her in time with Hilda's strokes, and it's too much. Her sister's name is in her mouth as she comes, she moans it over and over again, falls shuddering back against the counter when the initial frenzy of orgasm departs.

Zelda rides the aftershocks with Hilda's full lips on her cheeks, her forehead and nose. And when she's able to open her eyes, she finds the younger witch gazing at her in awe.

"I...didn't even realize that was possible," she breathes. Truthfully, Zelda never thought much about it, either, because Hilda's not the only novice in this. They are both exploring new horizons here. And Zelda had been nervous, too, so worried about making this work for Hilda that she'd not given a thought to what the toy could do for her.

"Well," Zelda says, swallows hard to stop the tremor in her voice, "Well, now you know."

Hilda nods, then leans in closer for a proper kiss. "We are going to have so much fun with this," she says.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"You can always tell me if you don't like it. I'll stop."

It must be the third or fourth time Zelda's said it, and Hilda appreciates that she's trying to be gentle, to soothe and reassure. But she can’t be patient when her sister’s tongue is tracing patterns in the clusters of freckles on her chest, when Zelda’s palm is hot on the outside of her thigh. When Hilda can wrap her legs around Zelda’s waist and feel the leather harness, smooth and skin-warmed.

"I know that, Zelds." Hilda struggles not to sound as frustrated as she is. Instead, she sinks her fingers into Zelda's forearm, pulls her up, fastens their lips together. 

She lets her legs fall open, moves the older witch so that Zelda's slender body rests in the valley of her thighs. And Hilda’s reminded of what's between her sister's legs, feels it against the rise of her belly, can’t stifle the anticipatory moan that escapes her.

"Please, sister," Hilda whines. 

She's not too proud to beg, has no pride when it comes to Zelda. All her life she has wanted something from her sister. A childhood game of hide-and-seek or to be allowed to borrow a coveted hair ribbon. Not to be murdered every six months, or at least to be told what she had done to deserve it, given the chance not to repeat whatever mistake she’d made. Just a shred of basic affection, a morsel of recognition.

Hilda has been so desperate for so long that begging for pleasure is nothing, now. She needs stimulation, will go mad if Zelda leaves her to languish in unfulfilled want, which she is entirely sadistic enough to do.

Zelda thinks about it, too, thinks of being mean and teasing. But Hilda's pupils are so dilated that they almost swallow her irises. Her face and neck are passion-flushed and her voice husky, seductive as she whimpers: “Satan, Zelds, just…just _please_.” Zelda needs to touch her as much as Hilda needs to be touched.

She lays one last peck on Hilda's lips, then moves back down, kissing along her neck, running her tongue over the witch's mark at Hilda's throat, the matching one between her breasts, before capturing a nipple. Zelda languishes in the rise and fall of Hilda's chest beneath her, the labored breaths escaping her as Zelda lets go and moves to the other tit. 

She barely has time to lavish any attention there before Hilda's hands twine in her hair, ripping her away and pushing her down. There’s no mistaking what she wants, even if Zelda is, at times, remarkably bad at reading other people’s cues. It’s mostly because she chooses to be, though, refuses to acknowledge that people besides her have thoughts and feelings and wants. She played that game with Hilda for so long, is still making up for it. So she wastes no time now in burying her face in Hilda’s cunt, reveling in the incomparable beauty of the deep-pink folds that her tongue drags through, the delicious tartness of her sister, the high-pitched way she whines as Zelda flicks her clit, then latches on to suck.

Not for the first time, Zelda regrets denying herself Hilda for so long, for not knowing how to love her sister, not knowing how to say the words that still stick in her throat even when Hilda is close and eager and undeniably hers: _I love you, I want you, never leave me, stay here forever_. Zelda tries to put all of those emotions into this, into the way her mouth caresses, her tongue plunges into the heat of her sister. She tries to make Hilda feel what she is feeling, thinks that her sister might have an inkling as she pants her name, balls her hands in Zelda’s hair, lets loose a torrent of endearing nonsense as she comes.

When they are once again face-to-face, Hilda calls her “darling,” kisses her deep, tastes herself. She is far from sated, is still half-mad with want, and that is just one in the litany of things Zelda loves about her. How surprised she had been, when they finally baptized this bed where Zelda laid wanting her sister for decades, to find that small, sweet, domestic Hilda had a sexual appetite to not only rival Zelda’s, but which sometimes eclipsed it. Once is almost never enough for Hilda.

Her hand is straying down Zelda’s back, fingers coming to rest underneath the harness, using the leverage to pull her in so tight Zelda couldn’t escape if she wanted to (she very emphatically _does not_ want to, ever).

“Are you sure you want this?” asks Zelda. She presses forward, and the toy lodges between Hilda’s labia, making her hiss as the shaft brushes her clit.

“Yes,” she replies, rolling her own hips up into the dildo as if to prove it.

“It may hurt,” Zelda warns, kissing her sister’s temple lightly.

“I don’t care,” sighs Hilda, and Zelda nods, moves to align the dildo with Hilda’s opening. There’s a groan as Hilda takes the head in, as Zelda shifts her hips just slightly before pulling back. When she sinks in again, Hilda rocks forward to meet her.

“Is that alright?” Zelda asks, guides the toy in further when Hilda answers in the affirmative. She’s reluctant to go too deep, to push too much, so she sets a gentle rhythm of shallow thrusts. There’s a sense of pride as Hilda moans and shudders underneath her, as her hips rise to take more. 

Hilda, meanwhile, is disappointed that she doesn’t like this as much as she thought she would. It isn’t that it’s painful; it’s that the sensations are foreign. The toy is deeper than even Zelda’s impossibly long fingers have managed to go, and it’s all new, the fullness, the pressure, and she knows that it should feel amazing, but there are no sparks going off behind Hilda’s eyes, no quivering bliss like the heroines in her romance novels feel with their lovers inside them. 

Hilda tries not to be obvious about it, but Zelda knows her, has always known her and can read her even better now. 

“You won’t be able to come like this,” she whispers against Hilda’s lips. It’s not a question, or an accusation; it’s merely a statement of fact.

Hilda suspects not, admits it with a sense of defeat, hates the way that Zelda nods as if she already knew. She can’t help but feel like she’s failed, even though she knows how ridiculous that is. But it still grates on her, because she’s the one who initiated this, who wanted it so much, and she doesn’t even like it.

At least Zelda isn’t angry. She pulls the dildo out of her sister gently, comes forward to smother the apology on Hilda’s lips. The younger witch throws both arms around her sister, already plotting ways to make it up to her. Her thoughts are interrupted by Zelda gripping her hips and then rolling, flipping them so that Hilda’s straddling her waist, the toy between them, pressing again into Hilda’s folds.

“Come here, little love,” whispers Zelda, and she pulls Hilda forward, urging her up and onto the toy. It feels good going in, but Hilda’s stomach quivers with something other than pleasure as she tries to think how she’s supposed to proceed now.

“Zelds, I don’t…I don’t know how to do this.”

“Just do what feels good,” Zelda encourages, and then she moves her hips and, with them, the toy inside Hilda, “I’ll help.”

Her hand comes to rest at the apex of her sister’s thighs, fingers burrowing in. One stroke on Hilda's clit and she’s moaning. The second makes her hips jerk slightly, and then the third has her pelvis canting, has her grinding onto Zelda, tipping forward to catch the older witch’s fingers and then back to force more of the toy into her.

“Oh, Satan, Zelds…”

“Feels good?”

“Yes,” Hilda hisses. Zelda’s hips are moving along with hers, and now the entirety of the toy is in her, hitting places that Hilda didn’t even know could be stimulated.

In her rational mind, Hilda always suspected that her romances were fantastical bullshit. Surely there was no way anything could feel as good as those books made sex out to be. Hilda’s explorations of her own body had only confirmed it, because touching herself was nice, but it was never anything earth-shattering.

And then Zelda happened, her and Zelda, and it had been a revelation for Hilda, to know that it was possible to feel such an overload of pleasure, so much bliss that it made her head swim and everything inside her squirm, made her feel like she was falling apart and being knit back together better than she’d been before.

She'd never understood passion until the first time Zelda touched her, made her come with her fingers and her mouth, and it's the same now. She feels how much Zelda loves her each time her sister’s hips glide upwards, each swipe of her finger over Hilda’s clit, the way that Zelda sees each of her sister’s moans and raises her a sigh or whimper of her own. When she meets Zelda’s eyes, she sees the focus there, the pure admiration as she watches Hilda moving atop her, and that’s all it takes.

Hilda clenches hard around the dildo, and it almost hurts, the way that the toy hits her grasping inner walls, the rough slide of it inside her as she comes, but even that little bit of pain is divine. It keeps her riding high, thrusting and whining and quavering as her orgasm shatters her. She is trembling as she comes down, and can’t hold herself up, is grateful that Zelda is there to catch her when she falls forward.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So,” Zelda asks, turning over to look at Hilda, “What do you think?”

The toy and its harness are gone now, banished to the bedroom floor, and it’s just Zelda next to her, milky skin and soft breasts and strawberry thatch between her legs, and the sight of the latter makes Hilda salivate. She resolves to run her fingers and tongue through those curls just as soon as she can convince her muscles to work again.

“It was…fun,” replies Hilda. That seems like the stupidest possible answer, but it’s all she can muster now, with pleasure still fogging her brain.

Zelda moves closer until Hilda can feel her heat, can roll toward her, tuck herself into the curve of her sister’s arm.

“Did you like it more or less than when it’s just me touching you?” Zelda asks.

The question takes Hilda aback, and she pulls away, frowns at the way the older witch’s eyes have gone stormy. There are old insecurities in Zelda’s dark expression, unasked questions. _What if this is the only way Hilda will ever want to make love now? What if she decides she wants the real thing, leaves to go out and get it? What if Zelda can't keep her happy_?

“Stop looking at me like that,” Zelda says. She pouts and tries to roll away, but Hilda refuses to let her withdraw. She twines both arms around her sister’s waist, moves the soft curtain of Zelda's hair aside to place an insistent kiss at the base of her neck.

“It’s not a matter of better or worse, Zelda,” she whispers, “It was just different.” Hilda bites her lip, reflects, and then adds, “Less intimate, though.”

Zelda turns back to her, hungry for clarification, for reassurance. She is always like this after sex has made her raw and vulnerable. In these moments she can almost convince herself that she’s not enough for Hilda. Or, alternately, that she has pushed too far, surpassed her sister’s limits. Either way, the imagined end result is the same: Hilda regretting it all, Hilda hating her, having to watch Hilda leave forever.

 _Oh, Zelda, you beautiful, insecure idiot_ , the younger witch thinks before pulling her sister in for a kiss.

“I’m always going to need you touching me, Zelda,” Hilda says.

“Always?” asks Zelda, looking at Hilda as though the whole world rests on the back of her answer.

Hilda nods, then clarifies: “Forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you've read this and are still having trouble picturing the exact toy Zelda and Hilda are using in this scene, look up the Feeldoe. But leave me comments and kudos before you go and do that.


End file.
